


In Which Cronus is Introduced to the Topic of Masturbation Aides [and Summarily Wonders Why the Hell They Were Ever Considered Taboo]

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Belts, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sex Toys, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s just a toy,” you murmur, lips brushing against his, and he makes some soft, alien sound in the back of his throat and kisses the corner of your mouth in response, “It’s somethin' to make you feel good. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop, alright? All you gotta do is say so.”</p><p>He nods, leaning against you, his arms draped over your shoulders and his head tilting to rest on top of yours; you hold him up, hands on his hips, bracing your feet against the ground to handle his height and weight without dropping the both of you on your asses.</p><p>“So you want me to sit on it… naked,” he says, grinning a bit, “I think I can manage that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Cronus is Introduced to the Topic of Masturbation Aides [and Summarily Wonders Why the Hell They Were Ever Considered Taboo]

**Author's Note:**

> animated-pint on tumblr's birthday is today, and since i had this done and they asked for Bro, well... here u go

His face is the funniest fucking thing you think you’ve ever seen.

 

He has no idea what he’s looking at and it’s obvious; you know trolls have hardly anything by way of masturbation aides and porn, and its clear to you that he's never seen anything quite like what you’ve just dragged out of your closet. In fact, he almost seems scared of it, edging around the hulking black shape as if it might bite him if he moves too fast.

 

“So… you want me to _sit_ on that?” he asks, one fin up, almost like a confused puppy; you've always been far too easily swayed by cute things, but this is taking it to a whole new level. You just want to scoop Cronus into your arms and teach him everything you know, the poor clueless bastard.

 

“Preferably naked,” you reply, and he flushes, fluttering his fins at you in the way you’ve come to realize means he’s flustered. You grip his chin and tilt his face down, forcing him to bend a bit so you can plant one right on his lips because he’s too tall for you to do so just standing normally, and you are far too dignified to stand on your tiptoes to kiss him.

 

“I told you- only if you wanna. I ain’t gonna make you do anythin' you don’t want, sugar,” you soothe, and you feel almost every muscle near his shoulders go loose, his body relaxing as you reassure him. He places so much trust in you that it's scary, sometimes, but at least it’s you and not someone else. Not someone who’d use that trust against him.

 

“It’s just a toy,” you murmur, lips brushing against his, and he makes some soft, alien sound in the back of his throat and kisses the corner of your mouth in response, “It’s somethin' to make you feel good. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop, alright? All you gotta do is say so.”

 

He nods, leaning against you, his arms draped over your shoulders and his head tilting to rest on top of yours; you hold him up, hands on his hips, bracing your feet against the ground to handle his height and weight without dropping the both of you on your asses.

 

“So you want me to sit on it… naked,” he says, grinning a bit, “I think I can manage that.”

 

You ghost your hands over his chest, fingers rubbing up against the dips in the cloth where his gills lie; he shudders, leaning more weight on you, his hands reaching up to comb through your hair. You find it amusing that he still tends to search for your horns, even though you’ve made it clear humans don’t have them. You don't mind; your hair is a hotspot, just tugging it is enough to get you sporting a semi, and he's cute when he makes confused chitters, fingers smoothing over the hornless skin of your scalp.

 

“You sure?” you say, tongue dragging over the sweet-salt of his skin, right along the sharp line of his jaw, “Wouldn’t wanna give you too difficult a task there, big guy. Settin' you up to fail ain’t nice in the slightest.”

 

His claws dig into your scalp, fins flapping at you as you tease him; one finger ghosting over the tines of them has him relaxing, and you laugh, kissing the hollow of his throat.

 

“Get my clothes off me an’ we’ll see if it’s too damn difficult, Tex,” he says, all confident bravado, and he puffs his chest out- actually puffs his chest out, you can feel him inflate, it’s like a frog trying to make itself bigger and it’s hilarious- and postures for you, horns displayed. You, of course, have to oblige him.

 

His skin is cold against your hands, and you can feel his gills flutter as he sucks in a breath at the temperature difference; you peel his shirt off him, fingers digging in and scratching down sculpted muscle, just enough to raise thin purple lines down his chest and over the bumps of his ribcage, skin stretched thin across his stomach and sides. You are careful not to get his gills with your nails, even if they are far more blunt that a troll's, even a Beforan's.

 

“Of course, darlin’.”

 

Your hands touch his belt, and his fins twitch at the jingle-slide of metal against leather against metal; you scratch at his hips as you push down his pants and boxers all at once, the tip of his bulge poking from his sheathe, soft and violet and almost shy, curling between his legs as more and more is coaxed out by your questing fingers. He bucks up against your hands, and you still have a hard time believing how sensitive he is, even after having had him numerous times over the course of your stay in the dream bubbles; it surprises you every time that just your touch is enough to rile him up like this. And _god_ , is he riled up. His skin is flushed violet in some places, chest heaving as he takes in little breaths of air, and his bulge slides from its sheathe fully to curl around your fingers, hands clutching your shoulders as he moans. It’s as beautiful a sight as ever, and you tilt his head down and seal your lips over his, swallowing down his pretty sounds as you stroke and tease and play with him.

 

This, however, isn’t what you want.

 

As much fun as it is to make his knees tremble and his hips buck, you want to watch him on the new toy you’d just found; gently, you push him back, and he goes easily, stepping out of his pants and standing in front of the black box, bare and eager and shameless. 

 

It took you a long time to get rid of his shyness, but now he shows no trace of embarrassment being naked in front of you; his flush is from arousal rather than humiliation, and you tilt his head down for a kiss, rubbing over his horns in reward. He trills into your mouth, all soft and sweet, and you back him up until he’s straddling the toy, standing over it with a nervous tilt to his fins.

 

“This,” you say, tapping it with your foot, “is called a Sybian. It’s basically a glorified vibrator, just… better. Nothin’ to be afraid of, sweetheart.”

 

He snorts, fins flaring, and when you look up at him, there’s a stubborn tilt to his features, one that means he’s not backing out of this. You smirk, and he brushes you away, batting at you with his hands till you stand off to the side.

 

“I ain’t afraid, ” he says derisively, settling over the box on his knees, just tall enough to keep himself from touching the small plastic ridges along the top, “It’s just a toy, like you said. An’ all you want me t’do is sit on it. Not like sittin’ is fuckin’ _hard_.”

 

He settles down, the skin over his abdomen jumping a bit as the little bumps and whorls of silicon touch the soft tissue of his nook; there’s one you know is just long enough to broach him, but not enough to offer anything but the tantalizing sensation of just being penetrated.

 

“Good to hear,” is all you say in response, though you’re pretty damn desperate to at least mumble something about how no, sitting isn’t hard but goddamn,  _you_ definitely are. Not now, though. Now, you’re good, and you leave the shitty puns for outside the bedroom. Instead, you do all your talking with the remote.

 

The first wave of vibrations draw out a strangled yelp, Cronus’s hips shifting over the surface of the toy as you dial the remote up to the first level. It’s barely anything, barely strong enough to be called a vibration, but it sets him to squirming, knees tightening around the base of the Sybian. He’s always been so sensitive… You grin, and stand in front of him, burying your hand in his hair and tilting his head back with a solid grip on one horn.

 

“Feels nice, huh?”

 

He nods, teeth catching on his lower lip, face already flushed. He’s already so riled up that you’re not sure how he’s going to handle the higher vibrations, but you’re sure it’s going to be equal parts hot and hilarious.

 

You’re also very glad you paid extra for this thing to be waterproof.

 

“It’s… weird. But good,” he says, eyes heavy lidded; you rub your thumb over the crook of his horn and he sighs out a pleased sound, tilting his head into your hand.

 

You let him get used to the feeling, the idea, and then you bump it up to the next level; there are five levels total, each one stronger than the last, with different patterns of ebb and flow to the vibrations. This setting is the second weakest, and the tremors roll back and forth, strengthening near the base of his bulge and weakening the further back they travel. He lets out a gasping little whine in response, hips jerking down, pressing himself closer to the toy as it teases him. You know that, even as sensitive as it is, this isn’t near enough for him to get off on, not in the slightest. He’s going to be frustrated as fuck soon enough, begging you for _more, faster, please_ , and you can’t fucking wait.

 

For now, though, he’s just settling in, getting used to it, feeling it out; his hips shiver, bulge rubbing along to curl around one of the ridges in front of him, violet material staining the soft grey silicon and rolling off the plastic in little droplets. His head tips back, throat bared, and you drift your hand down to rub a thumb over the curve of his jaw, humming to him softly. He appreciates when you pay attention to him, when you touch him and acknowledge him and watch him, so you do, and he gives you a gratified trill in return, kissing sweetly at your wrist.

 

“Want some more?” you murmur, and he rolls his eyes, teeth needling the heel of your palm.

 

“Of course I want more,” he says, headbutting you gently in the gut- gently because, even though he almost knocks the wind out of you, it’s better than  you being gored wide open, what with those goddamn horns of his- “When do I not want more? Never, that’s when. So fork it over before I fall asleep here.”

 

Sweet bravado. You make him wait almost a minute more, listening to his grumbling with a smirk on your face, before you bump it up to the third level- much stronger than the first two.

 

His breath hitches, hands flying out to brace him against your hips; his claws dig in and clutch at you, and you can feel the ghost of his cool breath even through the material of your shirt.

 

“O-oh,” he sighs, letting you tilt his head back, lips parted around the cycle of his breathing, in and out, in-hitch-out-whine; he sounds needy, wanton, and when you guide his head to the tented front of your entirely too tight jeans, he nuzzles up against you and claws at the buckle of your belt, hands trembling.

 

“What happened to manners?” you say, voice soft, hoarse with need, but you’re far better at controlling yourself than he is and your hands remain steady as you fist your fingers in his hair.

 

“Please,” he whines, thighs trembling as they clench and relax around the black box of the Sybian, “Please, c’mon, don’t _tease_ me boss-”

 

How can you deny him when he makes such pretty noises at you?

 

You unbuckle your belt with one hand and slide it from your pants, reaching behind him and lashing his wrists together with the soft leather, because you can and because he looks so good, tied up.

 

“That good?” you say, tugging at it, checking its tightness, making sure you’re not going to have to stop this midway because he can’t feel his fingers; he nods, makes an incoherent noise, and mouths at the front of your pants, impatient as always.

 

For a moment, you entertain the thought of rope, of him bound, thighs strapped to his calves so he can’t use his legs to push himself up and off your new favorite toy once he finally climaxes, but he’s whining and butting at your stomach again, and your rope is all the way on the other side of the room, away from his pretty mouth…

 

And denying him now would be cruel to the both of you, you suppose, and you’re starting to need this just as bad as he is. He’s right here, and there’s always next time, or the time after that, or after that, so you just unbutton and unzip your pants and pull yourself out, shuddering as you stroke your hand over the length of your shaft.

 

“Open your mouth,” you say, and he obeys, eyes wide; you rub the head of your cock over his lips, then slide in, groaning as he swallows you down with no trouble.

 

He whimpers against you, long tongue wrapping around your length, and you let out a soft sound of your own, guiding his head into a rhythm with the grip you have on his hair. He feels so fucking good like this, mouth cold like he’s been chewing ice, teeth nothing but a memory as he bobs his head smoothly, eyes fluttering shut; he always looks so fucking happy sucking cock, too, like he can’t get enough of it, and you can’t help but buck your hips a bit, pressing further into his mouth.

 

“Good boy,” you murmur; he whimpers and moans and makes muffled noises of pleasure as you fuck his face, and with one slightly shaky hand, you bump up the vibrations to the next level.

 

His reaction is instantaneous; he goes stiff, the muscles in his shoulders straining as he tugs at the belt wrapped around his wrists. He swallows around you, grinding his hips down, bulge lashing over the toy’s surface as you hold his head still with a hard grip on his horns, his entire body quivering with impending release.

 

Cronus is sensitive, yes, but it takes a lot of stimulation for him to come; he’d never felt climax before he’d come to you, no one had ever bothered to put the effort into making him feel good, but you pride yourself in making him feel good, and by the looks of it, he’s feeling _real_ good.

 

About to feel better, at any rate.

 

Because you only leave him to get used to the fourth level of vibrations for a minute before you bump him up to the fifth; he shudders all over and grinds down harder, gasping through his nose as you drag his head forward to press up against your stomach.

 

“Wanna come?” you rasp, thumbing over his horns, tugging gently at his fins; he lets out a trill, throat reverberating around you, forcing his eyes open to give you a glazed, pleading look.

 

He’s close, you can tell by his shuddering and the soft, needy noises he makes. You want to watch him tip over the edge, you want to drive him to release, so you grip his horns in your hand and roll your hips into his mouth, coaxing him along with praise and pressure, pushing him down against the vibrating ridges of the toy.

 

“Then come. I’m not stoppin’ you.”

 

It’s like flipping a switch. One second, he’s pleading, begging, the next he’s gone rigid, falling to pieces in front of your very eyes. He sucks and swallows desperately around you as he shudders, saliva dripping from the corners of his lips, slurry splashing over the silicon and plastic beneath him even as he grinds needily against it, and he makes a sound like dying, harsh and guttural and wanton.

 

Just watching him, you can’t hold yourself back either. He’s just too much, and you aren’t going to deny that his mouth definitely adds to the experience; with a muted groan, you pull back, barely needing to touch yourself before you’re coming all over his face.

 

He just lets his tongue loll, panting hard and whimpering as the toy continues to buzz between his legs with little mercy; you smear your jizz over his lips with your fingers and he laps at it dazedly, dragging his tongue over your hand, nuzzling into your palm like a cat.

 

His legs are shaking too much to help him in his struggles to get off the blocky Sybian, and you’re not much help, either; you’re enjoying his oversensitized little sounds far too much to consider lifting him off yourself, and he hasn’t asked you for help yet, so obviously it’s not bothering him to any great extent.

 

“Bro,” he gasps, shifting, trembling, hips bucking as he twists from side to side, “Bro, Bro- _Amb_ rose-”

 

You shudder, and your grip on his hair tightens; he whimpers as you fall to your knees in front of him, level with him now, forcing his head back and baring his throat to your lips and teeth and tongue. His gills flutter against your mouth, soft and fragile; even in his frantic quest for a second climax, you’re careful with them.

 

It’s almost easy, this time. You press him down by his shoulders, drag your tongue along the length of his gills, and he’s gone, spilling out a pitiful amount of slurry over his lap as he cries out your name.

 

You know he can’t handle going three rounds. He could hardly handle two, and now he’s limp against you, letting out sweet little trills and whimpers with every breath in a manner that lets you know that if you left him on this thing, he’d probably kill you later, if he could even walk afterwards.

 

No guarantees on that last part even now, but at least he’s still pleasantly clingy, nuzzling up against you and whining softly for you to turn the damn thing off already, instead of needling you with his sea monster teeth.

 

“C’mon,” you croon, smoothing his curly hair back from his sweat-sticky forehead, one arm settling around his waist, “Up you get, sweetheart.”

 

He’s fucking heavy, built like a brick shithouse, but you’re not exactly a slouch yourself so you manage to get him up and into your arms, and from your arms, into the bed. You kiss his forehead and feed him gentle praises as you unwind the belt from his wrists, rubbing at the slight discolouration there, from all his tugging and pulling. The rest of him seems fine, though, just a bit messy; a washcloth from the bathroom fixes that right up, and you’re careful as you clean the slurry from between his legs and the come from his face.

 

“So, was it really all that bad?” you ask, and he makes a face at you and wraps his arms around your waist and drags you straight into bed. You’d never admit that you yelped, but he sniggers at you anyways, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder and holding you tight enough that you know you aren’t escaping, not for a good eight hours.

 

“No,” he mumbles, then his legs are twining around your waist and he’s well and truly cemented to you, “Wasn’t bad. Still weird, though.”

 

“Then I guess we’ll just have to get you used to it. The doctor prescribes liberal application of sex toys.”

 

He smacks you, then rolls on top of you, squishing you down into the bed; you don’t mind it much, not when he’s such a heat sink. You always tend to overheat in bed, but since you’d started sharing your resting space with Cronus, you’d been pleasantly cool the whole night through with no problems.

 

“Wouldn’t object to another round,” he says, words muffled by the skin of your throat, “In like a week maybe.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

You both fall silent, just basking in each other’s presence; you kiss the top of his head and he mouths sleepily at your throat, you comb your fingers through his hair and he rubs a hand absently over your chest. Soon enough, though, he’s conked out, and you’re left alone to plan and think out the details of ‘next time’.

 

You’ve been wanting to break out your ropes for a while, and it will be fun, to see how much he can tolerate.

 


End file.
